s, and many a clever feller, whose
latter end was never known."

"And so I suppose Mr. H.," said his wife, "that is the reason you make
such slim clearings." "I estimate your right," said he; and we, not
expecting the spice of sentiment which flavored Mr. H.'s story, left
him, and reached home, where we closed the evening by putting into the
following shape one of Silas Marvin's legends, not written with a
perryian pen and azure fluid, but with a quill from the wing of a wild
goose, shot by our friend Hanselpecker, (who by the way was fond of such
game,) as last fall it took its flight from our cold land to the sunny
south, and with home-made ink prepared from a decoction of white maple
bark.

THE LOST ONE,

A TALE OF THE EARLY SETTLERS.

Beyond the utmost verge of the limits which the white settlers had yet
dared to encroach on the red owners of the soil, stood the humble
dwelling of Kenneth Gordon, a Scotch emigrant, whom necessity had driven
from the blue hills and fertile vallies of his native land, to seek a
shelter in the tangled mazes of the forests of the new world. Few would
have had the courage to venture thus into the very power of the
savage--but Kenneth Gordon possessed a strong arm and a hopeful heart,
to give the lips he loved unborrowed bread; this nerved him against
danger, and, 'spite of the warning of friends, Kenneth pitched his tent
twelve miles from the nearest settlement. Two years passed over the
family in their lonely home, and nothing had occurred to disturb their
peace, when business required Kenneth's presence up the river. One calm
and dewy morning he prepared for his journey; Marion Gordon followed her
husband to the wicket, and a tear, which she vainly strove to hide with
a smile, trembled in her large blue eye. She wedded Kenneth when she
might well have won a richer bridegroom: she chose him for his worth;
their lot had been a hard one--but in all the changing scenes of life
their love remained unchanged; and Kenneth Gordon, although thirteen
years a husband, was still a lover. Marion strove to rally her spirits,
as her husband gaily cheered her with an assurance of his return before
night. "Why so fearful, Marion? See here is our ain bonny Charlie for a
guard, and what better could an auld Jacobite wish for?" said Kenneth,
looking fondly on his wife; while their son marched past them in his
Highland dress and wooden claymore by his side. Marion smiled as her
husband playful